The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Cruise of the Training Ship, by Upton Sinclair

THE CRUISE OF THE
TRAINING SHIP

OR

CLIF FARADAY’S PLUCK

BY
ENSIGN CLARKE FITCH, U. S. N.
AUTHOR OF
“From Port to Port,” “Clif, the Naval Cadet,” “Bound
for Annapolis,” etc.

PHILADELPHIA
DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER
610 South Washington Square

Copyright, 1903
By STREET & SMITH
——
The Cruise of the Training Ship

CONTENTS

The Cruise of the Training Ship.

CHAPTER I. NANNY IN TROUBLE.

“Handsomely there! Not so fast. One more pull and we’ve got——”

“Ow-w! Wow-w-w!”

“Blazes! Clap your hand over his mouth. Quick! The officer of the deck will be down in a jiffy.”

“Murder! Let go, you little imp! Let go or I’ll——”

Thud! Smack!

“You will bite my finger, eh? Take that, you miserable plebe. I say, Crane, just hold his head while I beat a reveille on his mug.”

“Wait a bit until we get him served and spliced, Dodge. He’s kicking like a steering wheel in a nor’east gale. There, that’s it. Another turn about his arms and we’ll have the rat dead to rights. Now, Mr. Nanny Gote, how do you like it?”

The speaker, a tall, heavily-built youth in a naval cadet uniform, grinned complacently into the upturned face of a youngster lying stretched out upon the orlop deck of the Naval Academy practice ship Monongahela.

The victim, for such his uncomfortable position and bound arms proclaimed him to be, was much younger than his chief tormentor, and was, moreover, slight and rather delicate in appearance.

His white face indicated his alarm, and he looked up pleadingly at the group surrounding him. He could not speak, perforce, for a wad of spun oakum filled the cavity of his mouth, fastened there by a tarry length of rope.

“Nanny,” as he was called by his companions, was a member of the plebe class at the United States Naval Academy. Those tormenting him were of the third, or hazing, class at the same institute. There were six in the group, and they represented about the most vicious element in their class.

Crane, the ringleader, “had it in,” to use his own words, for all plebes, and he had started out that night to haze a few just to keep his hand in.

The Monongahela was lying at anchor twenty miles below the academy, from which she had sailed early that morning on the usual summer practice cruise, as already related in another volume, entitled “Clif, the Naval Cadet.”

Early the following morning the tug from the academy would take her in tow again to complete the trip down the broad Chesapeake to the open sea.

It was a few moments after three bells (nine-thirty o’clock) in the night. The three classes of cadets making up the crew were supposed, with the exception of a small anchor watch, to be reposing peacefully in their hammocks.

Some were, and some were not.

When the watchful officer of the deck went his rounds after taps he found all well, and the deck echoing to the more or less melodious snoring of the occupants.

He was an officer shrewd in his generation. He had passed through the academy himself, and he had made more than one practice cruise in the old ships used for that purpose. And he remembered just such a night when, in his second year, he had started on plebe hazing expeditions with kindred spirits.

After leaving the berth deck he paused at the head of the ladder and listened. It seemed as if the chorus of snores below had slackened somewhat.

The officer chuckled and then quietly slipped down the steps again. He had no desire to catch any one in wrongdoing, but the memory of old cadet days was too strong to resist.

The berth deck lamps were burning brightly, but the major part of the great deck was in deep gloom.

Over in one corner where a jumble of hammocks made a haphazard patch of dark and light shades, several pairs of legs appeared underneath the swinging beds.

A low laugh came through the gloom, but it was speedily checked by a warning hiss. Several hammocks stirred uneasily, then came a snap and a thud, the latter followed by a howl of alarm.

The officer discreetly withdrew, unseen.

As he stepped out on the spar deck he chuckled again, and said:

“By Jove! the plebes will get it hot and heavy to-night. Humph! It won’t do them a bit of harm. I was hazed and thousands before me. A little trouble makes a man of one. Let ’em go it.”

With this philosophical speech, addressed to the moon which beamed brightly overhead, he calmly walked aft, and the plebes, luckless and endangered, were left to their fate.

When Crane and his associates sallied forth, they had one object in view, and that was to make it an exceedingly torrid night for a certain fresh “function” or plebe.

Hazing to them was a delicious and edifying sport at any time, but on this particular occasion they had extra inducements to spur them on.

That evening, just before pipe down, the ringleader passed the word to his cronies that he had something in the wind. Six choice spirits met in the starboard gangway and went into executive session.

“I guess you fellows know what we ought to do to-night,” began Crane, without further preliminary.

“Devil plebes?” spoke up a cadet from Georgia.

“Correct. It is not only our pleasure, but our bounden duty,” said Crane, pompously. “It’s a duty we owe our country—er—I mean our shipmates and ourselves. You all know the present state of affairs and how the very foundation of the old academy is tottering to its fall. How every tradition has been shattered, every shred of cadet etiquette—er——”

“Shredded,” suggested a thin middy, with a deep voice.

“Don’t be funny, Maxwell,” growled Crane. “This is a serious business.”

“Then come down to business. Why don’t you say that it’s about time to haze the stuffing out of that gang in the new fourth and be done with it. What’s the use of getting off a lot of confounded rot and——”

Crane reached out and caught the speaker by the neck. He gave him a tug and a shove, but before the two could come to blows they were separated.

“If you fools want to scrap, why don’t you go up in the fo’c’sle and have it out?” demanded one of the remaining four, in disgust. “Crane, take a tumble, and let’s arrange this evening’s sport. I, for one, say we ought to get up a scheme to teach that gang a lesson. There are only six of ’em, counting the Jap, and we ought to be able to handle them.”

“That’s right. And the first we must tackle is the freshest of the lot.”

“Clif Faraday?”

“Yes. Confound him, I wish Kelley had kept him ashore. He’s got more nerve and downright gall than all the rest of the gally functions together. Come, Crane, what can you offer?”

“I’ve got a scheme, but I’ll tell it in my own way or not at all,” replied the big cadet, sulkily.

“Go ahead, then.”

“It’s this in a nutshell: We’ll yank Faraday and the rest down into the orlop deck and give ’em a coat of varnish. There’s a whole pot down there, and paint, too. Then we’ll rig ’em out in spun yarn whiskers and set ’em adrift on the spar deck with some tin mess pans tied to their tails, that is, their ankles. It’ll be great sport.”

“Yes, and a tough job, too,” remarked the Georgian cadet.

“I’d like to know why?” exclaimed a sallow-faced youth. “He’s not so warm, this Faraday. He can be whipped.”

“Yes, but I’ve got five dollars which says you can’t do it, Morgan. Kelley could lay over you, and Faraday licked him.”

“Let’s quit talking,” growled Crane. “Pipe down will sound in a moment. Are you fellows satisfied with the scheme or not.”

The “fellows” were, and it was agreed to start the hazing as soon as possible after taps.

Presently the long, low notes of the last call sounded, echoing and winding through the rigging and hull in melancholy cadence. There was a momentary bustle, then quiet settled over the old frigate.

CHAPTER II. CLIF ON A SCOUT.

“Clif! I say, Clif! Wake up.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Wake up, will you. There’s something in the wind.”

“Oh, go away, Toggles. Can’t you let a fellow sleep?”

“All right, if you want to see a chum hazed by——”

“Hazed! Gorry! Who is it? Where—what——”

Clif Faraday swung lightly from his hammock, and confronted a tall, slim youth clad picturesquely in a long nightshirt.

Clif himself was similarly attired, and the single garment revealed to advantage his erect, muscular figure. He was not over large for his seventeen years of age, but there was grace and strength in every line of his compact body.

“What is it, Toggles?” he queried, hastily. “Did you say some one was getting hazed?”

“Yes. It’s Nanny.”

“Nanny? Gorry! Have they tackled that little chap? Who’s got him?”

“It’s Crane and his gang.”

Clif’s handsome teeth came together with a snap, and a queer, grim smile crossed his lips.

“Crane, eh?” he said. “He’s broke out again. And he has tackled Nanny as a starter. What do you know, Toggles?”

T. Oggles Andrews, or “Toggles,” as he was familiarly called by his plebe associates, made haste to reply.

Throwing one long, skinny leg over a convenient mess chest, he explained:

“White, that young landsman who has taken such a shine to you, told me a few minutes ago that he saw Crane and five others drag Nanny down the orlop deck ladder. They had the kid choked so he couldn’t resist or make a noise. I met White on deck and he put me onto the racket. He said he overheard them say they were going to raise merry hurrah with certain gally plebes.”

Clif laughed ominously.

“I suppose they meant us,” he replied. “Well, we won’t wait until they look us up.”

While speaking he had taken his trousers from beneath the hammock mattress and was donning them.

“Call Trolley and the rest,” he added. “We will make a night of it ourselves. Methinks the old Monongahela will see some queer doings before the sun rises again.”

Toggles gave a chuckle and slipped under the hammocks to the other side of the deck. While he was away summoning reinforcements, Clif made a hurried scout in the direction of the orlop deck hatchway, an opening in the forward part of the berth deck.

The orlop on board a man-of-war of the Monongahela type is, it may be well to know, a place in the bow below the level of the berth deck. It is subdivided into small storerooms and has a narrow hallway into which the rooms open.

As it is down in the extreme lower part of the ship, away from the sleeping crew, it is an ideal place for certain ingenious ceremonies known in colleges as hazing.

When Clif reached the edge of the hatchway, Nanny was just in the act of making the vociferous objections described at the beginning of this chronicle. His subsequent quieting at Crane’s hands, and that cadet’s remarks on the subject came plainly to Clif’s ears.

The latter, in his momentary anger, made a step down as if for the purpose of rescuing Nanny, but he thought better of it.

“They can’t do much harm to the youngster,” he murmured, “and if I interfere now it’ll spoil our scheme. It’s a good chance to teach those brutes another lesson. They have had more than one from us, but it seems they need more.”

He bent over the hatch and listened again. The berth deck was as quiet as the tossing and mumbling and snoring of several hundred sleeping lads could permit, and Clif heard plainly the conversation being carried on below.

“He’s fixed now, the measly plebe,” growled a voice which Clif easily recognized as Crane’s. “He’s number one, and the smallest of the gang. I only wish it was Faraday.”

“You do, eh?” muttered the unseen listener, grimly. “Well, you’ll have me pretty soon, but not in the way you think.”

“I say, Crane,” spoke up another muffled voice, “don’t you think your scheme a little too risky? It’ll stir up the whole ship and raise Cain generally. You know what the first luff said about hazers before we sailed.”

“Oh, bother the first luff. He’s an old woman. He forgets what he did in his second year. I’ve heard that he made a plebe eat tallow candles until he nearly died. Why, my plan is mild. What does varnishing and painting a few measly plebes amount to, anyway. If you don’t like to take chances skip back to bed.”

“I’m not afraid, but I wouldn’t care to get fired this early in the course. What if Faraday or some of his chums split on us?”

“No fear of that,” quickly exclaimed the Georgia cadet. “Faraday may be fresh, but he’s not carrying tales.”

“Thanks,” murmured Clif, starting to leave the hatch. “I’m glad to see that I have one virtue. I’ll bear that remark in mind, masters. Humph! so they intend to make living oil paintings of us, eh? Well, we’ll see who comes out best in the—— Gorry!”

Rumble! thud!

A slippery spot near the hatchway sent Clif reeling against a stanchion. Before he could recover his equilibrium he fell into the opening.

The hubbub created was enough to arouse the seven sleepers of Ephesus. Bang! went poor Clif’s heels against the sides of the passageway, and thud! he landed flat on his back at the bottom of the ladder.

He remained there half-stunned amid silence deep and profound for the space of a minute. Then he felt himself grasped by the back of the neck and yanked unceremoniously to his feet.

“Who in thunder is it?” gasped a frightened voice.

“Blamed if I know, but he’s spoiled our fun, whoever it is,” was the angry response. “Scoot, fellows, the officer of the deck will be down on us like a thousand of brick.”

Clif, fully recovered and in possession of his wits, heard a scrambling near by, and the creaking of a ladder. It was too dark for him to see anything, but he knew that the would-be hazers were stampeding from the orlop deck.

He realized that his unfortunate mishap would cause an alarm—in fact, there was already a bustling above—but he was in no hurry to get back to bed or to let any of the Crane gang seek the seclusion of their hammocks.

The rough treatment given little Nanny and the cool proposition to varnish and paint several of the plebes had aroused a feeling of resentment in Clif.

And he proceeded forthwith to make things warm for his enemies—the hazing committee of the third class.

Reaching out haphazard in the darkness he grasped something soft and yielding. It was a leg. It was Clif’s turn to give something a yank, and he did so with a will.

“Let go! What do you mean, confound it! Let go, I say, or I’ll break your head.”

Clif calmly gave a second yank, and his victim sprawled back upon the deck.

“Stop that racket down there,” whispered a voice halfway up the ladder. “Sh-h! keep quiet and we’ll be all right. I don’t think they heard it on the quarter-deck.”

Clif released his hold of the leg. He saw it was time to retreat. As he started to slip up the ladder he remembered Nanny.

“It’ll never do to leave him in their hands,” he murmured.

Stepping back, he felt around for the little prisoner. It was all guesswork in the profound darkness, and he met with small success. At last he stumbled over some object which gave a muffled groan, but before he could investigate further he heard several cadets descending the ladder.

“Everything all right?” whispered a voice near him.

“Yes,” came from Crane. “The officer of the deck is snoozing, I guess. The racket woke up the berth deck, but the fellows won’t bother us. I ran across that Jap, Trolley, near the hatch. He was prowling about as if he was onto us. We’ll have to wait now until things quiet down.”

“Who was the duffer who fell down the ladder?” asked another of the gang.

“Blamed if I know. Wonder if he got away?”

“Let’s search.”

Clif crouched back in the darkness, and prepared to give a good account of himself. He knew he was no match for the six, third class cadets, but he trusted to receive reinforcements from his chums.

Then he felt assured the enemy would not resort to anything calculated to create confusion and alarm. Such a course would only result in their own undoing.

“Trolley and Toggles and the rest would come down here in a jiffy if they knew where I was,” he muttered. “As it is, I’ll have to go to them.”

Clif felt that he could escape by making a bold dash, but he wished to leave without revealing his identity to the hazers.

He had a scheme of his own, the very thought of which made him chuckle.

“I wonder if all these doors are locked,” he mused, slipping back away from the searchers. They were perilously near and he had little time to spare.

Directly opposite him was a door leading into the medical storeroom. It was supposed to be locked, but Clif, in desperation, felt for the padlock.

It was unsnapped.

As quick as a flash he threw open the door, crept through and closed it behind him, all but a slight crack, which he left for the purpose of keeping in touch with the outside.

“I guess we must have been dreaming,” he heard Masters grumble.

“I guess not,” promptly contradicted another cadet. “It was no dream nor nightmare, either. My leg is sore yet where the fellow gripped it. And then the racket he made——”

“Oh, shut up!” growled Crane, who was evidently angry and discomfited. “What’s the use of wasting time talking like that. Some one fell down here, of course. And I’ll bet a dollar it was that fresh plebe, Faraday. He’s always prowling around. The question is, where did he go? He couldn’t have passed me on the ladder.”

“I wonder if any of the storerooms are unlocked?” queried Masters.

Clif listened eagerly for the reply. It was reassuring.

“Rats! Of course they are locked. Don’t talk nonsense, Masters.”

It was plainly evident Crane’s temper had not been sweetened by the experience of the past few moments.

“We won’t waste any more time looking for the beggar,” he added. “Let’s get up to the berth deck and find another plebe. Dodge, you stay and keep guard over Nanny. While we are gone you might amuse yourself decorating him for the grand appearance on the quarter-deck. You will find paint and varnish and oakum back of the ladder.”

A stifled groan from the prisoner indicated that he had heard the instructions.

“You don’t like the prospect, eh?” grinned Crane. “Just wait, my fresh youngster. You’ll like it still less before we get through with you. Come, fellows, we’ll——”

Crane never finished the sentence, for a light suddenly appeared at the top of the ladder and a stern voice called out:

“Below there, what are you doing in the orlop? Come up here and report for investigation.”

Clif, peering through the crack in the door, saw the cadets fall over each other in their sudden panic. He felt the door snatched from his grasp, thrown back, a figure slipped in, then it was hastily closed again.

“Jumping Moses! what a snap,” came to Clif’s ears in a familiar tone. “What a snap to find this place open. That’s the officer of the watch!”

It was Crane!

CHAPTER III. TURNING THE TABLES.

Clif could hardly repress a chuckle, although he fully realized the gravity of their position. With his ever-present sense of humor, he saw that he could have a “high old time” at Crane’s expense.

“I’ll give him the scare of his life,” he grinned. “He’ll think he’s got some old sea dog of Revolutionary times for a roommate.”

As a prelude he rattled several bottles on a shelf near his elbow, and gave a deep sigh.

Crane gasped, and a noise like chattering teeth came through the darkness.

“Wh-wh-what’s that?” demanded the third class cadet.

Another sigh and more rattling of bottles. Then Clif jumped twice upon a tin cannister. After that he groaned.

This last was too much for Crane. With a half-suppressed howl he broke for the door and burst into the orlop passage, Clif, shaking with laughter, peeped out.

As he did so he looked almost into the face of a youth clad in cadet’s trousers, and a naval officer’s blouse and cap.

It was Toggles!

“Gorry!” cried Clif in amazement. “He’s been masquerading as the officer of the deck, and he’s fooled the fellows nicely. Hurray!”

He stepped from the storeroom in a hurry, and just in time to see Toggles, Trolley and Joy seize Crane. The latter tried to escape, but he was bound and gagged in a jiffy.

Clif first assisted in the operation, then he slapped Toggles on the back and said, gleefully:

“You are a brick, old fellow. It’s a great scheme, and it came just in time. How did you do it?”

“Got one of the wardroom boys to loan me a coat and cap,” replied Toggles, in his quick, jerky way. “Got a lantern. Came down here. Scared fits out of those third class fellows. Sent them up to report on the quarter-deck.”

“Sent them up to report on the quarter-deck?” gasped Clif, ready to explode with laughter. “You don’t mean to say——”

“He’s a cuckoo,” chimed in a swarthy, black-haired youth, whose face proclaimed him a Japanese. It was Motohiko Asaki, whose distinguished name had long since been converted into the more easily pronounced appellation, “Trolley.”

“Him’s a cuckoo, a bully boy with eyeglasses,” he reiterated, giggling placidly. “Him got great head. Him fooled third class cadets and ordered them to quarter-deck. Officer up there will think they dream, and he——”

“Stow it, Trolley!” interrupted a lean, solemn-faced lad named Joy. “Your tongue is wound up like a Waterbury watch. We are losing valuable time.”

“I guess that’s right,” agreed Clif, finally recovering from his amazement at Toggles’ clever trick. “We have work to do, and lots of it. Let’s release poor Nanny first. He must be half dead by this time.”

He bent over and quickly freed the little lad, who had remained forgotten in one corner of the passage. Straightening up, Clif continued:

“I’ve got a little scheme, but it must be worked at once. This fellow here,” he touched Crane with his foot, “intended to paint us a rosy red and adorn our respective faces with oakum whiskers.”

“He did, eh,” growled Joy. “If I wasn’t a peaceable man by nature I’d adorn his mug with lumps and bruises.”

“He! he!” giggled Trolley.

“My plan is even better than that,” resumed Clif. “What’s the matter with giving him a dose of his own medicine?”

“Paint him red?” queried Toggles, delightedly.

“Sure thing.”

“Hurray!” cheered Nanny, but in a dutifully low voice. “That’s out of sight. And we’ll turn him loose on the quarter-deck.”

“Yes; with whiskers.”

The prisoner, who had heard all, writhed about the deck and made an inarticulate sound.

“He’s pleased with the prospect,” said Clif, sweetly. “If there is anything Crane likes on this mundane sphere, it is to be painted red, decorated with oakum whiskers, and turned loose with an appropriate chorus of tin pans. My, oh, my! Won’t the captain be pleased to meet him!”

“I don’t think,” muttered Joy.

“Get the paint ready, Nanny,” added Faraday, briskly. “You will find it behind the ladder. Pick out a bright carmine, and a good scratchy brush. Toggles, see what you can do in the shape of an artistic whisker. Make it long and imposing as befits his exalted station. I’ll take a peep on deck.”

The lamp was shaded so its rays would fall upon the victim’s face, and Nanny and Toggles fell to work. Trolley and Joy held Crane prostrate upon the floor.

Clif slipped up the ladder to the berth deck, and made a careful survey of the situation. He found everything quiet. Proceeding to the gun deck he listened carefully to see if anything was astir. Finding all apparently undisturbed, he glided up the hatchway ladder leading to the spar deck.

As Clif stepped from the top of the ladder he saw a lieutenant and five very unhappily looking third class cadets approaching from aft.

He just had time to dodge into the shadow of the bulwarks when they halted at the hatch. The officer was speaking in a stem voice:

“Now, go below and behave yourselves,” he said, addressing them collectively. “If I hear any more of this nonsense I’ll put you on report for punishment. Fancy five sensible cadets with two years of service being silly enough to believe an order like that. I’m ashamed of you. Some plebe has fooled you. And he did it cleverly, too. Go below and turn in at once. Remember, I’ll be down there in a minute or so. If you are not in your hammocks you will get demerits enough to swamp you.”

The five dolefully filed down the ladder and disappeared in the gloom below. Clif saw the lieutenant shake as if with suppressed laughter. It was evident he keenly enjoyed the situation.

A moment later he turned away and went back to his post on the quarter-deck, leaving Clif to hasten below.

He found his chums awaiting him. Trolley silently held up the lantern so the rays would fall upon Crane’s face. Clif gave one glance, then he fairly doubled up with mirth.

“Gorry! there’s the worse looking phiz I ever saw,” he gasped. “Ha! ha! ha! his own mamma wouldn’t know him. He’s a picture.”

Inarticulate noises came from behind the gag in Crane’s mouth. He fumed and struggled with impotent rage. But it only added to the joy of the group of plebes.

Nanny and Toggles had done their work well. Crane’s face was painted in great streaks of red, with an artistic relievo of green spots. Suspended from his chin was a shock of yellow oakum whiskers, the ends of which trailed impressively far down his breast.

As a last touch cunning little curls of the same material adorned his hair. And, taking it all in all, he was a spectacle to make Neptune weep.

“Examine his fastenings and see that they are secure,” said Clif, between chuckles. “We must take him to the quarter-deck by way of the gun deck and steerage. And he mustn’t kick.”

“That’s rather risky,” continued Toggles.

“It no cut ice,” grinned the Japanese youth, recklessly. “I go to captain’s cabin to see fun like this. It out of sight plenty much. Hurray!”

“Nanny, you collect several stewpans and three or four strings of tin cups,” continued Clif. “And be careful you don’t wake up the deck in getting them. Go through the mess chests forward. Come along, Mr. Crane, hazer-in-chief of the U. S. Naval Academy. You are about to play the most striking rôle of your eventful life.”

“And may the stewpans have mercy on your head,” added Joy, grimly.

Crane, still making desperate efforts to escape, was trussed anew with a length of rope, then the four plebes lifted him up the ladders to the gun deck.

This part of the Monongahela was occupied by the regular enlisted crew who assisted the cadets in working the ship. Nothing was to be feared from them, as they had no desire to interfere with cadet pranks.

Cautiously and with very little noise the quartet carried the victim aft to a door leading into the steerage, or junior officers’ quarters. It was a large apartment, containing several berths and space for hammocks.

In the center was the ladder leading to the quarter-deck, and it was up this ladder the daring plebes intended to take Crane.

Nanny, armed with pans and cups, was met at the door. The tins were fastened to various parts of Crane’s body and held tightly to avoid the making of unwelcome noise.

“We will carry him up the ladder and place him on the top step,” explained Clif, in a low whisper. “Then while you fellows are scooting out of the way I’ll cut the ropes and give him a shove over the coaming.”

“And he’ll fall flat in the midst of all those tins,” grinned Nanny. “By Jinks! this is the greatest fun I’ve had in a year of Sundays.”

“But we won’t see the fun,” complained Toggles.

“Oh, if you want to wait and take in the show do so by all means,” chuckled Clif. “The officer of the deck will be glad to oblige you with a box.”

“Yes,” added Joy, “a box ’tween decks, some time called the ‘brig,’ or ship’s prison.”

“I guess I don’t care to be a spectator,” admitted Toggles, with a grin. “The price is too high.”

The five lads carried their burden through the door to the ladder. The steerage was unlighted save by a single lamp behind the swinging hammocks. Heavy breathing and an occasional snore indicated that nothing need be anticipated from the junior officers.

“Up now,” whispered Clif. “Slowly and carefully. Steady; that’s it. Now lower him to the step.”

While he was getting his knife in readiness, the other plebes silently retreated and vanished into the gloom of the gun deck.

Clif placed his left hand under Crane’s body, braced himself for a brisk shove, then he slashed away with the knife.

There was a ripping noise as the ropes parted, a sudden clatter of the cups and pots, then, as Clif started to slip away, Crane threw both arms about his neck and the two rolled over upon the quarter-deck at the feet of the officer of the watch, amid a terrific din!

Clif had ever been a lad of quick resources, and of cool-headedness in times of emergency. His mind, intelligent and apt, worked rapidly and he was seldom at a loss for action. But in the present instant his surprise and stupefaction was so great that he could only stare from Crane to the officer of the watch, and back to Crane again.

This mental and physical paralysis lasted only a few seconds, however. Then Clif, with incredible agility, leaped to his feet and sprang toward one of the open gun ports.

As quick as a flash he vanished through the aperture, leaving Crane and the officer staring at him in open-mouthed wonder. The latter was the first to recover.

Leaping to the gangway, he glanced over the side, fully expecting to see the lad struggling in the water. The moon, which had been obscured by a passing cloud, burst forth in all its refulgence.

The clearly illuminated expanse of water revealed nothing, not even a ripple.

The lad had completely disappeared.

Dumfounded, and imagining that he was the victim of a nightmare or dream, the lieutenant turned inboard once more.

“What in the name of all that’s wonderful does this——”

He stopped short. The other apparition—the marvelously-bedecked and painted figure—the other cadet, had also vanished.

The officer rubbed his eyes, and administered unto himself a severe pinch. Then he glared suspiciously at the figure of the quartermaster on duty on the bridge.

Approaching him, he asked, cautiously:

“I say, Johnson, did you—er—hear or see anything just now?”

Johnson was an old seaman, and he had made many a cruise on board academy practice ships. He knew and liked the cadets and found their pranks a source of infinite fun. He was not the man to tell tales out of school. Concealing a grin, he answered, with a fine assumption of surprise:

“See anything, sir? Hear anything, sir? No, indeed, sir. Was it a hail?”

“A hail? No. It seemed to me”—the lieutenant hesitated, glanced nervously about the deck, then added: “I guess it was simply a fancy. I’ve lost considerable sleep lately, Johnson, and probably I am a little unstrung.”

He moved aft, and spent the rest of his watch signing imaginary pledges not to take another drop of anything stronger than lemonade.

In the meantime a scene unusual at that hour was being enacted on the forward part of the berth deck.

Over in one corner a cadet was cleaning his face of red paint and oakum whiskers. He was in a rage, and shook his fist at Clif and his crowd.

“Oh, but this is funny,” cried Clif. “It’s worth a year’s pay to see Crane do the circus act. Isn’t he a beauty in his war paint?”

“Him what you call one chromo,” giggled the Japanese youth. “I glad I woke all the fellows to see the sport. Hurray!”

“How did you get away from that mixup on the quarter-deck, Clif?” queried Toggles. “When I reached the main deck ladder you had disappeared over the side. How was it?”

“Easy enough, chum. When I saw how scared the lieutenant was a bright idea struck me. I crawled through the nearest port to the starboard main chains and swung down against the ship’s side. I saw the officer look over, then, when he turned away, I reached the gangway and slipped forward. Now let us turn in and give Crane a rest.”

And they did.

CHAPTER IV. MORE HAZING.

“That isn’t a clew line, you lubber.”

“I—I thought——”

“What’s that? Thought? How dare you think? Shade of Farragut! What’s the service coming to? A confounded measly plebe—a worm of a function—thinking! It’s dreadful to contemplate.”

“Please, sir, I didn’t mean——”

“You didn’t mean? Why didn’t you mean? Say, is it possible you say things without meaning them? Then you don’t tell the truth. Ergo—you can’t be trusted. A pretty naval officer you will make. I’ll just mark you down for report to the commanding officer.”

And Cadet Corporal Sharpe made an elaborate flourish of his pencil as he pretended to enter the item in his notebook.

Standing before him in evident fear and trembling was Nanny. Clif was also present.

“Did you ever hear the beat of that, Trolley?” whispered Clif. “It’s simply outrageous, the way Sharpe is carrying on. What does he take us for, a lot of dummies? I think we’ll have to give him and the rest another lesson in manners.”

“I think so very much, Clif,” replied Trolley, in the same tone. “He what you call one dead-sure crank, eh? He bluffer from—from——”

“Bluffersville,” prompted Joy.

“Yes, him from Blufftown, eh? Him get a curve off him.”

There was a smile at this attempt of the Japanese youth to use American slang—a smile that was observed and sternly checked by the corporal.

“What’s that,” he exclaimed, sarcastically. “Grinning during drill? Mean it as an insult to the service, I suppose.”

“Not exactly,” mildly replied Clif.

“Who told you to speak, Mr. Faraday. How dare you make remarks. Want to get swamped with demerits before this practice cruise of the Monongahela is over, I suppose. You haven’t nerve enough to run away, and you are afraid to resign, so you think you will misbehave yourself and get fired. I’m on to your little game, and, by Jupiter! I’ll help you.”

Out came the book, and the pencil was placed in action once more. As he closed his little book with a snap, he added:

“That means ten demerits at the very least. I see your finish, Mr. Faraday.”

Clif coolly shrugged his shoulders and glanced across the deck toward another group of plebes that was likewise being hazed by a cadet officer.

It was drill hour in the morning watch on board the Monongahela. The vessel was still anchored near the mouth of Chesapeake Bay. It was considered necessary to allow the three classes on board to become accustomed to their new surroundings before venturing to sea, and for that reason progress was slow.

Cadet Corporal Sharpe, in charge of Clif and his chums was an expert “plebe deviler.” He had been known to drive timid and credulous plebes to resign in desperation. And he had driven new fourth class men with more backbone, to open revolt, which ultimately resulted in divers demerits for the said “mutineers.” All this to the unbounded satisfaction and joy of the hazer and his cronies.

That morning when orders were given to teach the plebe class the various ropes and their uses, Corporal Sharpe was assigned to the group composed of Clif, Trolley, Toggles, Joy, Nanny Gote, Chris Spendly, and Judson Greene.

The two last were not chums of Clif. In fact, they hated him most cordially, and, since their entrance into the academy, had tried in many underhand ways to “down” him.

Each attempt had resulted in their own discomfiture, and of late they had kept rather quiet. Fate had placed them in the same squad with Clif this day, and they were eager to see if he would get into trouble with the cadet corporal.

From the appearance of affairs at the commencement of the lesson it certainly seemed that their desires would be gratified. Clif viewed with displeasure the young officer’s deviling of Nanny, as the little lad was an especial favorite of his.

The morning lesson was to consist of instruction in the different running ropes. At the very outset Cadet Corporal Sharpe had held up a manilla line leading aloft amid a perfect maze of others and had sharply demanded of Nanny its name.

The lad hazarded a guess and was immediately pounced upon as outlined at the commencement of this chapter. After noting down Clif’s offense in his book, the corporal proceeded with the lesson. And it was evident from his air of complacent satisfaction that he thoroughly enjoyed the situation.

He took Clif in hand.

“You have put on more airs than an admiral since the academy was unfortunate enough to admit you,” he snarled, “and it’s about time you found out that you do not run the whole show. You have raised the Old Nick in your own estimation, and, simply because you and your gang came out ahead in hazing once or twice you think you can do as you please. What’s that—talking back to a superior officer, eh?”

Out came the book once more. Making an entry, the corporal restored it to his pocket.

Clif had not spoken, but that fact made little difference. The hazer was out for trouble.

Those standing near Clif saw two round, red spots appear upon his cheeks, but he was still apparently cool.

Trolley and Toggles looked their disgust, but they had too wholesome a respect for discipline to interfere.

Little Nanny—he was barely within the limits of size at the entrance examination—seemed troubled and excited. He was not a lad of very strong character, but he had one attribute, and that was faithful affection.